Discussion.

I will converse with iron-witted fools

And unrespective boys — none are for me

That look into me with suspicious eyes.

Richard III.

“How now, Jekyl!” said Lord Etherington, eagerly; “what news from the enemy? — Have you seen him?”

“I have,” replied Jekyl.

“And in what humour did you find him? — in none that was very favourable, I dare say, for you have a baffled and perplexed look, that confesses a losing game — I have often warned you how your hang-dog look betrays you at brag — And then, when you would fain brush up your courage, and put a good face on a bad game, your bold looks always remind me of a standard hoisted only half-mast high, and betraying melancholy and dejection, instead of triumph and defiance.”

“I am only holding the cards for your lordship at present,” answered Jekyl; “and I wish to Heaven there may be no one looking over the hand.”

“How do you mean by that?”

“Why, I was beset, on returning through the wood, by an old bore, a Nabob, as they call him, and Touchwood by name.”

“I have seen such a quiz about,” said Lord Etherington —“What of him?”

“Nothing,” answered Jekyl, “except that he seemed to know much more of your affairs than you would wish or are aware of. He smoked the truth of the rencontre betwixt Tyrrel and you, and what is worse — I must needs confess the truth — he contrived to wring out of me a sort of confirmation of his suspicions.”

“‘Slife! wert thou mad?” said Lord Etherington, turning pale; “His is the very tongue to send the story through the whole country — Hal, you have undone me.”

“I hope not,” said Jekyl; “I trust in Heaven I have not! — His knowledge is quite general — only that there was some scuffle between you — Do not look so dismayed about it, or I will e’en go back and cut his throat, to secure his secrecy.”

“Cursed indiscretion!” answered the Earl —“how could you let him fix on you at all?”

“I cannot tell,” said Jekyl —“he has powers of boring beyond ten of the dullest of all possible doctors — stuck like a limpet to a rock — a perfect double of the Old Man of the Sea, who I take to have been the greatest bore on record.”

“Could you not have turned him on his back like a turtle, and left him there?” said Lord Etherington.

“And had an ounce of lead in my body for my pains? No — no — we have already had footpad work enough — I promise you the old buck was armed, as if he meant to bing folks on the low toby.”31

“Well — well — But Martigny, or Tyrrel, as you call him — what says he?”

“Why, Tyrrel, or Martigny, as your lordship calls him,” answered Jekyl, “will by no means listen to your lordship’s proposition. He will not consent that Miss Mowbray’s happiness shall be placed in your lordship’s keeping; nay, it did not meet his approbation a bit the more, when I hinted at the acknowledgment of the marriage, or the repetition of the ceremony, attended by an immediate separation, which I thought I might venture to propose.”

“And on what grounds does he refuse so reasonable an accommodation?” said Lord Etherington —“Does he still seek to marry the girl himself?”

“I believe he thinks the circumstances of the case render that impossible,” replied his confidant.

“What? then he would play the dog in the manger — neither eat nor let eat? — He shall find himself mistaken. She has used me like a dog, Jekyl, since I saw you; and, by Jove! I will have her, that I may break her pride, and cut him to the liver with the agony of seeing it.”

“Nay, but hold — hold!” said Jekyl; “perhaps I have something to say on his part, that may be a better compromise than all you could have by teasing him. He is willing to purchase what he calls Miss Mowbray’s tranquillity, at the expense of his resignation of his claims to your father’s honours and estate; and he surprised me very much, my lord, by showing me this list of documents, which, I am afraid, makes his success more than probable, if there really are such proofs in existence.” Lord Etherington took the paper, and seemed to read with much attention, while Jekyl proceeded — “He has written to procure these evidences from the person with whom they are deposited.”

“We shall see what like they are when they arrive,” said Lord Etherington. —“They come by post, I suppose?”

“Yes; and may be immediately expected,” answered Jekyl.

“Well — he is my brother on one side of the house, at least,” said Lord Etherington; “and I should not much like to have him lagged for forgery, which I suppose will be the end of his bolstering up an unsubstantial plea by fabricated documents — I should like to see these same papers he talks of.”

“But, my lord,” replied Jekyl, “Tyrrel’s allegation is, that you have seen them; and that copies, at least, were made out for you, and are in your possession — such is his averment.”

“He lies,” answered Lord Etherington, “so far as he pretends I know of such papers. I consider the whole story as froth — foam — fudge, or whatever is most unsubstantial. It will prove such when the papers appear, if indeed they ever will appear. The whole is a bully from beginning to end; and I wonder at thee, Jekyl, for being so thirsty after syllabub, that you can swallow such whipt cream as that stuff amounts to. No, no — I know my advantage, and shall use it so as to make all their hearts bleed. As for these papers, I recollect now that my agent talked of copies of some manuscripts having been sent him, but the originals were not then forthcoming; and I’ll bet the long odds that they never are — mere fabrications — if I thought otherwise, would I not tell you?”

“Certainly, I hope you would, my lord,” said Jekyl; “for I see no chance of my being useful to you, unless I have the honour to enjoy your confidence.”

“You do — you do, my friend,” said Etherington, shaking him by the hand; “and since I must consider your present negotiation as failed, I must devise some other mode of settling with this mad and troublesome fellow.”

“No violence, my lord,” said Jekyl, once more, and with much emphasis.

“None — none — none, by Heaven! — Why, thou suspicious wretch, must I swear, to quell your scruples? — On the contrary, it shall not be my fault, if we are not on decent terms.”

“It would be infinitely to the advantage of both your characters if you could bring that to pass,” answered Jekyl; “and if you are serious in wishing it, I will endeavour to prepare Tyrrel. He comes to the Well or to the ordinary today, and it would be highly ridiculous to make a scene.”

“True, true; find him out, my dear Jekyl, and persuade him how foolish it will be to bring our family quarrels out before strangers, and for their amusement. They shall see the two bears can meet without biting. — Go — go — I will follow you instantly — go, and remember you have my full and exclusive confidence. — Go, half-bred, startling fool!” he continued, the instant Jekyl had left the room, “with just spirits enough to ensure your own ruin, by hurrying you into what you are not up to. — But he has character in the world — is brave — and one of those whose countenance gives a fair face to a doubtful business. He is my creature, too — I have bought and paid for him, and it would be idle extravagance not to make use of him — But as to confidence — no confidence, honest Hal, beyond that which cannot be avoided. If I wanted a confidant, here comes a better than thou by half — Solmes has no scruples — he will always give me money’s worth of zeal and secrecy for money.”

His lordship’s valet at this moment entered the apartment, a grave, civil-looking man, past the middle age, with a sallow complexion, a dark thoughtful eye, slow, and sparing of speech, and sedulously attentive to all the duties of his situation.

“Solmes,”— said Lord Etherington, and then stopped short.

“My lord”— There was a pause; and when Lord Etherington had again said, “Solmes!” and his valet had answered, “Your lordship,” there was a second pause; until the Earl, as if recollecting himself, “Oh! I remember what I wished to say — it was about the course of post here. It is not very regular, I believe?”

“Regular enough, my lord, so far as concerns this place — the people in the Aultoun do not get their letters in course.”

“And why not, Solmes?” said his lordship.

“The old woman who keeps the little inn there, my lord, is on bad terms with the post-mistress — the one will not send for the letters, and the other will not dispatch them to the village; so, betwixt them, they are sometimes lost or mislaid, or returned to the General Post-office.”

“I wish that may not be the case of a packet which I expect in a few days — it should have been here already, or, perhaps, it may arrive in the beginning of the week — it is from that formal ass, Trueman the Quaker, who addresses me by my Christian and family name, Francis Tyrrel. He is like enough to mistake the inn, too, and I should be sorry it fell into Monsieur Martigny’s hands — I suppose you know he is in that neighbourhood? — Look after its safety, Solmes — quietly, you understand; because people might put odd constructions, as if I were wanting a letter which was not my own.”

“I understand perfectly, my lord,” said Solmes, without exhibiting the slightest change in his sallow countenance, though entirely comprehending the nature of the service required.

“And here is a note will pay for postage,” said the Earl, putting into his valet’s hand a bank-bill of considerable value; “and you may keep the balance for occasional expenses.”

This was also fully understood; and Solmes, too politic and cautious even to look intelligence, or acknowledge gratitude, made only a bow of acquiescence, put the note into his pocketbook, and assured his lordship that his commands should be punctually attended to.

“There goes the agent for my money, and for my purpose,” said Lord Etherington, exultingly; “no extorting of confidence, no demanding of explanations, no tearing off the veil with which a delicate manoeuvre is gazé — all excuses are received as argent comptant, provided only, that the best excuse of all, the argent comptant itself, come to recommend them. — Yet I will trust no one — I will out, like a skilful general, and reconnoitre in person.”

With this resolution, Lord Etherington put on his surtout and cap, and sallying from his apartments, took the way to the bookseller’s shop, which also served as post-office and circulating library; and being in the very centre of the parade, (for so is termed the broad terrace walk which leads from the inn to the Well,) it formed a convenient lounging-place for newsmongers and idlers of every description.

The Earl’s appearance created, as usual, a sensation upon the public promenade; but whether it was the suggestion of his own alarmed conscience, or that there was some real cause for the remark, he could not help thinking his reception was of a more doubtful character than usual. His fine figure and easy manners produced their usual effect, and all whom he spoke to received his attention as an honour; but none offered, as usual, to unite themselves to him, or to induce him to join their party. He seemed to be looked on rather as an object of observation and attention, than as making one of the company; and to escape from a distant gaze, which became rather embarrassing, he turned into the little emporium of news and literature.

He entered unobserved, just as Lady Penelope had finished reading some verses, and was commenting upon them with all the alacrity of a femme savante, in possession of something which no one is to hear repeated oftener than once.

“Copy — no indeed!” these were the snatches which reached Lord Etherington’s ear, from the group of which her ladyship formed the centre —“honour bright — I must not betray poor Chatterly — besides, his lordship is my friend, and a person of rank, you know — so one would not — You have not got the book, Mr. Pott? — you have not got Statius? — you never have any thing one longs to see.”

“Very sorry, my lady — quite out of copies at present — I expect some in my next monthly parcel.”

“Good lack, Mr. Pott, that is your never-failing answer,” said Lady Penelope; “I believe if I were to ask you for the last new edition of the Alkoran, you would tell me it was coming down in your next monthly parcel.”

“Can’t say, my lady, really,” answered Mr. Pott; “have not seen the work advertised yet; but I have no doubt, if it is likely to take, there will be copies in my next monthly parcel.”

“Mr. Pott’s supplies are always in the paullo post futurum tense,” said Mr. Chatterly, who was just entering the shop.

“Ah! Mr. Chatterly, are you there?” said Lady Penelope; “I lay my death at your door — I cannot find this Thebaid, where Polynices and his brother”——

“Hush, my lady! — hush, for Heaven’s sake!” said the poetical divine, and looked towards Lord Etherington. Lady Penelope took the hint, and was silent; but she had said enough to call up the traveller Touchwood, who raised his head from the newspaper which he was studying, and, without addressing his discourse to any one in particular, ejaculated, as if in scorn of Lady Penelope’s geography —

“Polynices? — Polly Peachum. — There is no such place in the Thebais — the Thebais is in Egypt — the mummies come from the Thebais — I have been in the catacombs — caves very curious indeed — we were lapidated by the natives — pebbled to some purpose, I give you my word. My janizary thrashed a whole village by way of retaliation.”

While he was thus proceeding, Lord Etherington, as if in a listless mood, was looking at the letters which stood ranged on the chimney-piece, and carrying on a languid dialogue with Mrs. Pott, whose person and manners were not ill adapted to her situation, for she was good-looking, and vastly fine and affected.

“Number of letters here which don’t seem to find owners, Mrs. Pott?”

“Great number, indeed, my lord — it is a great vexation, for we are obliged to return them to the post-office, and the postage is charged against us if they are lost; and how can one keep sight of them all?”

“Any love-letters among them, Mrs. Pott?” said his lordship, lowering his tone.

“Oh, fie! my lord, how should I know?” answered Mrs. Pott, dropping her voice to the same cadence.

“Oh! every one can tell a love-letter — that has ever received one, that is — one knows them without opening — they are always folded hurriedly and sealed carefully — and the direction manifests a kind of tremulous agitation, that marks the state of the writer’s nerves — that now,”— pointing with his switch to a letter upon the chimney-piece, “that must be a love-letter.”

“He, he, he!” giggled Mrs. Pott, “I beg pardon for laughing, my lord — but — he, he, he! — that is a letter from one Bindloose, the banker body, to the old woman Luckie Dods, as they call her, at the change-house in the Aultoun.”

“Depend upon it then, Mrs. Pott, that your neighbour, Mrs. Dods, has got a lover in Mr. Bindloose — unless the banker has been shaking hands with the palsy. Why do you not forward her letter? — you are very cruel to keep it in durance here.”

“Me forward!” answered Mrs. Pott; “the cappernoity, old, girning alewife, may wait long enough or I forward it — She’ll not loose the letters that come to her by the King’s post, and she must go on troking wi’ the old carrier, as if there was no post-house in the neighbourhood. But the solicitor will be about wi’ her one of these days.”

“Oh! you are too cruel — you really should send the love-letter; consider, the older she is, the poor soul has the less time to lose.”

But this was a topic on which Mrs. Pott understood no jesting. She was well aware of our matron’s inveteracy against her and her establishment, and she resented it as a placeman resents the efforts of a radical. She answered something sulkily, “That they that loosed letters should have letters; and neither Luckie Dods, nor any of her lodgers, should ever see the scrape of a pen from the St. Ronan’s office, that they did not call for and pay for.”

It is probable that this declaration contained the essence of the information which Lord Etherington had designed to extract by his momentary flirtation with Mrs. Pott; for when, retreating as it were from this sore subject, she asked him, in a pretty mincing tone, to try his skill in pointing out another love-letter, he only answered carelessly, “that in order to do that he must write her one;” and leaving his confidential station by her little throne, he lounged through the narrow shop, bowed slightly to Lady Penelope as he passed, and issued forth upon the parade, where he saw a spectacle w............